


The Corner of My Mind

by ArtemisRae



Series: 5_loves [4]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Canon - Manga, Community: 5_loves, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-02
Updated: 2008-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRae/pseuds/ArtemisRae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ways they influences each other over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Corner of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Livejournal community 5_loves. First half takes place preseries, when Urahara is first learns Benihime's name, the second half the night Byakuya and Renji come to take Rukia back to Soul Society. Mostly written because I've only seen Benihime written as a vixen and I thought I'd toy with that a little bit. This is in no way, shape, or form based upon my own little old Italian grandmother. No warnings, except for only the barest wisp of the prompt, which was "fly"

* * *

The sound of her name passing his lips sends a shiver down his spine.

He genuinely dreads the day when this does not happen, when she is not new and exciting; the thought of becoming accustomed to such beauty evokes a sense of true mourning in Urahara.

Whether or not she agrees is still a mystery to him; she rarely smiles or frowns, and honestly her face is so wrinkled that Urahara often thinks that he’d have to be studying her hard to be able to tell the difference.

Benihime is tiny, barely coming up to his chest even before the hunch in her spine bends her over. Despite this he’s never seen a shuffle to her step – only a smooth glide which causes her bare feet to peek out occasionally from under the hem of her kimono – nor has he ever seen a shake to her gnarled joints – when she serves tea there is nary a ripple in the cup.

Urahara enjoys his time with her, even if she has not yet taught him a proper command. Usually they sit together, and take tea while he fills the silence; he _has_ learned that she will ignore casual questions, and so usually he tells her about himself, and about the people around him, until the day when she finally holds up one hand and silences him.

“Kisuke,” she says, not unkindly and yet still with weariness, “I already know all of this. You’re an old soul, and I’ve been with you since the beginning.”

He falls into silence and sips his tea, and when he finally overcomes the nerves and embarrassment, he gathers his courage and says slowly, respectfully, “My lady, if I have nothing else to tell you of myself, may I learn of you now? You know me inside and out, and yet I know nothing of you.”

The silence that follows is ringing. Urahara cringes, sure he’s overstepped his bounds, and stares down at his hands, trying to avoid any eye contact.

It’s the sniffling that draws his gaze; when he looks up Benihime is gazing at him, neither smiling nor frowning, with tears dripping from her bright eyes.

Urahara has long assumed that her dress accounted for her name; he’s never seen her without the scarlet and gold kimono swirling around her, and it’s when he sees the tears of blood running from her eyes that he truly understands.

“It has been years,” the old lady chokes out. “It has been _years_ since anyone has asked such a thing of me. I had thought the information worthless.”

“Dear lady,” Urahara is out of his seat and kneeling beside her, cupping her face; there is blood on his hand and he doesn’t care. “Please do not cry such useless tears.”

“Dear boy,” she replies, closing her eyes and capturing his hands in hers. “I will show you the power of such tears.”

* * *

The sound of her calling his name feels like nails raking down his back.

It still thrills him like nothing else. She calls him so rarely these days, and it hurts him to remember times when he was bright and new and an eager student, and when she was pretending to be a hesitant teacher who truly could not impart her knowledge quickly enough.

"Kisuke."

He barely hears his name over the falling of the rain. Yoruichi is at his feet for the first time in years, winding around his ankles anxiously while he turns his ears and eyes inward and sees Benihime.

"They're here," she says, and her pale eyes look beyond him as she speaks. Her tears have not started yet, but he can see them gathering in the corners of her eyes. "My brothers are here."

"I know," he answers simply, and reaches out to put a calm hand over her winkled, trembling one.

“It has been years,” she adds, still refusing eye contact with him, “since I have gone against my brother swords.”

“You won't face that task tonight,” Urahara tells her simply, and while it is harsh it is still the truth. The flares of reiatsu on the distance are coming from young men. “This is not your fight.”

Her eyes flash, and Urahara realizes that her hands are trembling not with fear but with anger. “Which is, Kisuke? We’ve retreated to this world, we’ve been condemned for a crime we did not commit, and none of our involvement with Soul Society ever benefits us. I am tired of hiding in the shadows.”

“We’re old souls, dear lady,” Urahara says kindly. Years of exile have not been good to either one of them. “Leave it to the young ones to fight their fights. We’ll clean up after them.”

“I have cried tears of anger and sorrow and joy, Kisuke,” Benihime responds warningly. “But I have never cried tears of fear. I have not taught you that.”

“We will have our fight. But not tonight.” His hands are steady, his voice reassuring. In the distance, the crushing reiatsu that has been pressing the air close around them suddenly dies away. All that is left is the rain pattering against his toes, and Yoruichi’s increasingly persistent call. “Tonight, we’ll fly after others.”

* * *


End file.
